


Revelations

by Ponddipper



Series: When the Wind Blows [1]
Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Contemplation, F/M, Gen, Implied Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6632851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ponddipper/pseuds/Ponddipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ordered to escort a prisoner to London, Richard meets a face from his past and has one or two revelations about his life.....<br/>Set at the end of Series 2 Episode 8.  Series 3 doesn't exist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London Calling

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first full length DIP work. It is still very much a work in progress and I might just tweak things as I go. I've decided to post chapter one because I need the kick to stop fiddling with the bits I have and get on with writing the rest of it.  
> **UPDATE** This didn't work so well as I have now 'tweaked' chapter 1 again! Sorry.  
> If you notice elements of your own stories / ideas in my work - I apologise. It is not intentional, but I have read just about every Richard and Camille story on here and I do find I get inspired by your words.  
> My thanks to katedf for permission to borrow her storage idea a bit later in the story.
> 
> So enjoy this tale and do let me know what you think. I always appreciate comments as they help me improve.
> 
> **THE CHARACTERS OF RICHARD POOLE, CAMILLE BORDEY, ET AL ARE NOT MY OWN. THEY ARE THE PROPERTY OF ROBERT THOROGOOD AND RED PLANET PICTURES. I JUST LET THEM OUT FOR A BIT OF EXERCISE NOW AND THEN....**  
> I will make a note of my original characters in the notes for each chapter.

** Chapter 1 – London Calling **

Detective Inspector Richard Poole was in a foul mood.  He was tired and grumpy after the interminable flight and now he was going to have to drag his suitcase halfway around London with him while he tried to sort out some lunch. 

_Well, at least I HAVE my suitcase this time!,_ he thought to himself as he battled his way out of the revolving doors of the budget hotel the MET had booked him into.  This was the problem with mass produced, corporate chain store businesses.  There was never any leeway for the individual whose circumstances might mean that they **_can’t_** wait until 2pm to check-in using the automated check-in service because at 2pm on the **_day that they arrived_** from the Caribbean some idiot had arranged a high level meeting that they had travelled 4,000 miles to attend!

48 hours earlier DI Poole had been stood in the blessedly cool, air-conditioned main living room of the late Malcolm Powell.  With him were his colleagues Officer Dwayne Myers, Officer / Sergeant Fidel Best, and Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey.  Mr Powells wife, secretary, gardener, and a PhD student from the Marine Reserve (Powell had set up the charity) were also in attendance.  It was DI Pooles sad duty to have to reveal that the latter three persons were actually jointly responsible for the murder of Mr Powell, thought admittedly it was the secretary Ms Vicky Woodward who had actually pulled the trigger.  It was this fact that had led to DI Poole now standing in the swirling wind on the south bank of the Thames in London.

As had become tradition when the team of Royal Saint-Marie police officers closed a case, once the suspects had been placed into the custody of the Saint-Marie Prison Service, they had retired to La Kaz, a small beach bar cum restaurant owned and run by Camilles mother, Catherine.  The weather had been its usual sunny self, though thankfully a touch cooler now it was hurricane season.  As the team were celebrating not only the successful completion of another case, but also Fidel having gained his Sergeants stripes (the fact they knew about 48 hours before the rest of the candidates found out their results is a whole other story!), Commissioner of Police, Selwyn Patterson cast his shadow over the scene.

He had congratulated Fidel, and then pulled DI Poole to one side.  Richard did not know of any reason to be nervous, but the man always made him nervous.  Patterson had a way of making a seemingly throwaway remark that turned others’ lives upside down.  And that is just what happened.

‘ _They want to interview her_ [Vicky Woodward] _in London.  If you catch the 6 o’clock flight you can be in London in the morning.  I’ll have a car pick you up at your house in an hour.’_

 

And that was it.  Richard was sent back to London for a few days to escort Ms Woodward and to be debriefed by SOCA, the Serious Organised Crime Agency.  He had only one hour to pack.  But that hadn't been the reason he couldn't sleep during the flight.  No.  That was because of two things:  Bad memories of the last prisoner he had ‘escorted’ (the man was knifed to death whilst attached to DI Pooles wrist), and _that_ kiss.  The one from Camille as he was about to get in the taxi and fly halfway around the world. 

The whole encounter lasted no more than two or three seconds but Richard had replayed the whole thing over and over in his head.  He could recall every sensation, every thought, every sound: her breathing in his ears, the touch of her lips on his skin, the swirling of waves in his belly, the smell of her perfume, the reaction of his own body.

Richard literally stumbled upon a coffee shop.  Because he was so lost in his thoughts, he had not seen the signboard sitting outside on the walkway and he had crashed right into it with a clatter.  Several people looked up at him and muttered, but no-one checked to see if he was okay. 

_If this had been Honor_ _é harbour front_ , he thought as he picked himself up, _at least half a dozen people would have come running over to check he was uninjured_.  Grumbling and going red with embarrassment, he straightened himself up and went inside. 

Fifteen minutes later he emerged £6 lighter, with a corned beef and tomato sandwich and a tea in a polystyrene cup.  He had declined to pay a further five pence for a carrier bag.  He walked along, desperately looking for somewhere to sit down and consume his first meal since the cardboard stew he had been served on the plane last night.  Richard thought about how much tea he could purchase at Catherines bar for £6.  He calculated that £6 would buy him at least three pots, from which you could normally get at least 4 cups.  12 cups!  In a bone china cup and saucer, not a polystyrene one! 

As DI Poole stomped his way along by the river, his detective head picked out the recognisable types among the crowds of people hunkered down against the strong breeze, determined to enjoy the dry day by being outside.  There was the teenage office junior, sitting in a cheap, ill-fitting suit looking awkward as he tried to consume the sandwiches his mother had made him, without looking like a schoolboy on a day trip.  Then there was the harassed and perspiring middle manager whose shirt strained at the seams to hold in his girth, while he talked constantly on his phone and gulped down a chain store coffee.  Richard felt, rather than saw, the obnoxious cycle courier clad in Lycra, sporting muscles that he was not even sure he possessed, and who sped past at what felt like 50 miles per hour.  The place was bustling with people of all ages and creeds, despite the biting wind that blew.  But everyone seemed engrossed in their own world, sat alone or in small huddles busy with their own lives, not daring to catch the eye of the person next to them.  A crowd of loners.  The whole place felt….oppressive.

 

_It must be because I haven’t slept since yesterday morning,_ reasoned Richard as he stifled a yawn.  Why else would he feel so out of place in **_London_** _?_  It was so familiar yet he felt apart from it.  This had been home for nearly twenty years.  He knew the place so well and yet it felt so alien to him.  Although it looked generally the same, he could see so much had changed.  New high rises fought their way towards the sky, the sounds of traffic hurting his ears, and there was an air of tension surrounding everything.

Eventually he found a small space on the end of a crowded bench.  It was right near the foot of Westminster Bridge, not too far left to walk to New Scotland Yard and his meeting with SOCA. 

Placing the tea down by his feet, Richard tried to open his sandwich packet.  For the last seventeen months his sandwiches had been made by Catherine, who wrapped them in greaseproof paper.  They had not been incarcerated within a box Fort Knox would be proud of, made from cellophane and cardboard.  It occurred to Richard as he struggled that nothing on Saint-Marie was mass produced. There were no chains of chain stores (or should that be _links_ of chain stores?).  Businesses were owned and run by individuals like Catherine; real people not faceless corporates.  Only the high end resorts were multi-nationals and even they chose to make each resort reflect its location.  Richard’s stomach growled angrily causing the smartly dressed woman next to him to let out a huff of disgust.

With an irate tug, he managed to open the box.  However the force of the action propelled the contents upwards and outwards, resulting in the sandwich performing a graceful arc in the air, at which point a HUGE seagull swooped in and caught it before the bread and filling hit the ground.  Richard sat open mouthed as his lunch was devoured before his very eyes by the gluttonous gull now perched on the wall in front of him.

‘ _Ere, mate!  You ain’t  s’posed to feed the bloody birds.  Can’t you read?_ ’ balled a man from the other end of the bench gesticulating wildly at a sign on the wall just below the bird. 

Richard turned his head, about to protest that far from feeding the bird, it had just stolen the food from him, but the man, who looked like some kind of banker in smart suit and striped shirt, stood, gave him a disgusted look, and muttered  ‘ _Soddin’ tourists!_ ’ under his breath as he strode off.  The gull just laughed raucously.

Richard scooped up his tea, lest the bird wish to wash down the sandwich.  There wasn't time to get anything else to eat now, so he moved on.  No-one noticed his contorted expression as he glugged a large mouthful of the dishwater masquerading as tea – it was weak, tasteless and nearly cold!  Ditching the half empty cup into a nearby bin he muttered to himself.

‘ _Come back Catherine.  All is forgiven!’_


	2. A Blast From The Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A face from the Richards past is the last thing he needs.....

** Chapter 2 – A Blast From The Past **

****

Detective Chief Inspector George Darwin of the Serious Organised Crime Agency (SOCA) met Detective Inspector Richard Poole of the Metropolitan Police with a beaming smile and a sweaty handshake. 

DI Poole eyed DCI Darwin with nervous suspicion.  Darwin was aged around 55ish, and looked like he had been run over by a steam roller.  The man stood a little taller than Poole despite his stoop, with short cropped greying hair.  A striped blue and mauve shirt hung limply from his shoulders giving the man the impression of being a coat hanger, while a garish navy and white spotted tie was badly tied around his neck.  His grey trousers looked creased, as though he’d slept in them and his patent black shoes were scuffed.  _Hardly the Commissioner,_ thought Richard as he shook the man’s bony paw.

 _‘A pleasure to meet you, Inspector.  I’ve heard a great deal about you!’_ Said Darwin cheerfully.  

 A tinge of red blushed across DI Pooles face. 

‘ _Don’t worry.  It’s not all bad!’_ Darwin chuckled trying to reassure his visitor. 

It seemed to make Poole even more uncomfortable.  Darwin recalled hearing on the grapevine about Poole not being good with others.   Darwin managed to hide his surprise that the unassuming, meek looking man stood in front of him was the same person who had managed to uncover a major identity theft racket, as well as at least two cases of serious fraud whilst living on a tiny island in the tropics.  He looked more like a librarian than a police officer.

‘ _I hope I can be of assistance, Sir.’_ Said DI Poole. _‘Though I am not sure how much I can add.  Everything is in my report.’_  

He knew he had been detailed in his report on the murder of Malcolm Powell and the team’s subsequent investigation into the money laundering by Vicky Woodward.  He knew because he was **_always_** detailed.

‘ _I’m sure your personal insight will prove useful, Inspector.’_

It didn’t seem quite right to call this prim and proper man by his given name somehow.

 _‘It is good of you to come all this way._   _Did you have a good flight?  I can never get comfortable in those dreadful seats.  I’m sure they make them smaller now than they used to…’_ Darwin prattled on desperately as he indicated that DI Poole should follow him.

 As they walked along the bland corridors of ‘the yard’ towards the briefing room, Richard’s mind began to wander.  He thought how he could be in any of a thousand offices in the city.  The grey carpet and bland cream walls were dull and uninspiring.  _Was it really this depressing before, or have budget cuts gotten that bad?_ Richard thought to himself.  Occasionally a pathetic half dead potted plant broke up the monotony, reminding him of the one that had been ‘murdered’ by Catherine’s chicken soup.  They must have passed a staff break room of some kind, as at that moment he was sure he caught a waft of the offending liquid.  The thought of food made his stomach growl in anger again.  Darwin stopped suddenly.

‘ _Was that you?’_ He smiled. Richard flushed beetroot red.

 _‘Um yes.  Sorry!  My lunch was stolen.’_ Darwin looked at him with a puzzled frown. _‘By a seagull, down by the river.  I didn’t have time to get anything else.’_

 _‘Thieving seagulls?  Oh good one!’_ Darwin laughed, and resumed walking.

All thought of food was soon forgotten as a thunderous guffaw erupted along the corridor and DI Pooles gut was clenched by and icy fist.  He hadn’t heard that sound in nearly six years but he recalled each note with high definition clarity.  His day just got a whole lot worse.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Detective Sergeant John Manning leant heavily upon the smart table which stood in the centre of the room.  His greasy brown hair was untidily cut and stubble shadowed across his lower face.   He was a man of considerable bulk, shirt straining to contain years of too much food, too much alcohol and not enough exercise, while a pair of off the rack trousers, too long for his dumpy legs, but tight about the waist cascaded onto a pair of long unpolished brogues.  He was currently holding court with anyone who would listen.  Sadly for him this was only a wet behind the ears acting Detective Constable new to the department. 

 

 _‘You wait til you meet this guy.’_  Manning boomed, with the false impression it made him look important.  ‘ _Worked with him at Croydon.  Right pompous p@*t.  He always drove everyone else nuts with his slow plodding.  Always had to make sure ‘e ‘ad all the evidence first before ‘e’d make an arrest.  Never came out with the boys at lunchtimes.  Just tucked ‘imself away – reading!  Total pedantic t &£t.    I remember one time, we was waiting for some fingerprint results.  Lab said their computer broke so we’d have to wait.  Well that wasn’t good enough for ‘im, so he gets out a bloody magnifying glass, goes through the print cards.  BY HAND!  Thought he was Sherlock bloody Holmes or summat!’  _Manning guffawed loudly, and his companion giggled at the image. 

The rest of the six-strong team just continued to read the briefing notes about the Caribbean wonder Detective that had shown up their entire department.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0

‘ _Dicky-boy!  Good to see you again!’_ Yelled DS Manning with a false smile plastered to his podgy face.  He heaved himself to his feet and wobbled his way over to his former colleague who now stood in the doorway, holding out a hand in the traditional manner of two old acquaintances meeting again.  DI Poole’s whole body tensed at the sound of his former nick-name.  He thought he had gotten over it, gotten over the hurt it caused and the memories it invoked, but it seems the words could still pick at the recently healed wound.  The image of a sunny afternoon on Saint-Marie came to him.  He would deal with this the same way he had deal with it last time.

‘ _My name, is Richard_.’ he said icily to the man stood in front of him, glaring at his outstretched hand until Manning dropped it back to his side. ‘ _And it is Inspector to you._ **Sergeant**.’ 

He noted Manning’s swiftly concealed look of shock at his declaration, and managed to suppress the smirk that tried to escape his lips.  Camille would have been proud of him.  If she had taught him anything during the Doug Anderson case and beyond, it was to stand up against a bully.  Let them know you wouldn't be intimidated.  Anderson’s words had not altered the team’s opinion of him.  He had found reassurance in that.

 

Introductions with the rest of the SOCA team over, Darwin asked DI Poole to explain Vicky Woodward’s involvement in the Lindeman Investments investigation.

‘ _It seems she was smarter than Mr Powell gave her credit for.  She’d quickly grasped how the business worked and knew how and where the money was being hidden, making sure that when the whole thing collapsed, she could not be linked to any dodgy dealings.  Ms Woodward had testified at the trial, and convinced the jury that he was just a victim of others manipulations.  By then Powell probably had some idea of how much Ms Woodward knew.  So, when Powell and his wife came to Saint- Marie, along came the trusted secretary to help set up and run the charity that they hoped would restore Mr Powell’s reputation.  A case of keep your friends close, your enemies closer.  We estimate that she had been planning the murder and how to cover her tracks for nearly a year_.’

Darwin brought up some pictures of Saint-Marie and the marine reserve on the interactive whiteboard as he outlined the case of the murder of Malcolm Powell.  Richard found himself mentally adding in his team – Fidel taking the evidential photographs, Dwayne taking statements in the corner, Camille up on the balcony of the house looking down, for all the world like Juliet awaiting her Romeo….

 

 _Concentrate Poole!_ , he berated himself, coughing to try and hide the blush he was sure stood out like a beacon on his skin.

‘ _Wow!  It looks beautiful there._ ’ Sighed a young blond DC who had been introduced as Carol Samson.

‘ _I suppose it is._ ’ Said Richard. 

 

He hadn't really stopped to consider the aesthetics of the island before.  He’d been sent there to solve a case and expected to come home at the end of it.  By the time he had found out he was staying he had been too annoyed to think of anything other than how he’d been manipulated and how much he didn't like.

‘ _It is very hot though, and the sand gets everywhere_!’  He added.

‘ _Yeah.  But all those bikini babes parading around on the beach?  Phwoar!  Yes please_.’ Leered DS Manning.

‘ _That is usually only on the private resort beaches, and the main town beach.  The rest of them are quiet most of the time.  Most people do wear normal clothes.  And we don’t spend our days on the beach.  We are there to solve crimes_.’  Richard argued.

‘ _It’s ‘ardly a inner London council estate, Dicky_.’ Teased Manning.

Darwin coughed. 

‘ _Back to our case_ , **gentlemen**?  _Inspector, how did you make the link between Powell and Lindeman Investments?_ ’

‘ _Yeah.  Who tipped you off Dicky?_ ’  Manning could see Poole was beginning to bristle.  It was fun winding up the pompous git again.

‘ _No-one.  Fidel, erm Officer Best, as he was at the time, did the background checks on Mr Powell and everyone else at the fundraiser as usual.  Apart from myself, Camille and the Commissioner_.’

‘ _Camille?  Who’s that?  Your Girlfriend?_ ’  Sneered Manning.  He had never seen Poole even so much look at a woman like _that._ Richard glared at him, grinding his teeth.

 _‘ **Detective Sergeant** Camille Bordey is my second in command.  She was trained in Paris, has been shot twice and has three commendations for bravery.’  _ DI Poole snapped back.  And she could easily take your fat backside in a fist fight, he added to himself.

‘ _Oka-a-a-y-y-y’_ said Manning with sarcasm.

 

Richard continued to explain how Fidel had tracked the path the money had taken through the Caribbean with bank statements.

‘ _But you must have had a source on the inside.  The wife maybe?  You’re not seriously telling us that **you** managed to uncover a major fraud on that backwards little island of yours with nothing more than a bank statement and a magnifying glass, Dicky?’  _ Manning was goading his former colleague.

‘ _There was **NO** inside source.  And for your information _**Sergeant** ,’ emphasised DI Poole, ‘ _Saint-Marie is not, as you suggest, backwards.  Yes, there may not be a forensics lab on the island, or dedicated crime scene teams but we have one of the highest case closure rates in the Caribbean.  Last year we were ranked 2 nd behind Barbados, which has five times the population, significantly more resources, and seven times the per capita income.’  _Richards spat.  He was getting angry at the man’s ignorance of the facts.

‘ _Well I doubt there’s much in the way of_ **complicated** _crimes to solve anyway.’_  Sighed Manning stretching backwards in his seat with his hands clasped behind his head.  It revealed two very clear sweat stains in the region of his armpits, turning over the stomach of his former colleague.

 ‘ _Oh Officer!  That monkey stole my coconut!’_ Manning said in a high pitched voice. ‘ _Hardly needs Sherlock Holmes does it?’_  

The probationary Constable sniggered, and Darwin crushed him with a glare.

Manning could see Dicky-boy bristling with rage, but knew the pathetic man wouldn't speak out.  He was too weak and feeble to do anything but blush like a love-struck teenager.  It was easy to get him so riled that he couldn't speak.  Shame he wasn't assigned here permanently.  It was such fun to have someone to wind up like that.  He’d missed it since he left Croydon.

 

After a few more questions from the rest of the team, Darwin brought the meeting to a close. 

‘ _Thank you for your time Inspector.  I'm sure if we have any more questions we can call you.  It was good of you to come all this way.’_ Darwin stood, as did Poole and they shook hands. 

Meeting over everyone gathered their papers and began to traipse out of the room.  Darwin was first out of the room, striding away with purpose.  As Manning and his sidekick walked away down the corridor, Richard heard the fat man comment.

‘ _I still think he’s got some snitch ‘idden away somewhere.  P’aps he’s got his eye on some bird and won’t let on who cos she’s involved_.’

 

Later, standing in the rain by the Thames, Richard concluded that it was probably a combination of extreme exhaustion, hunger, frustration and a deep dislike of the man that caused him to react as he did.  Richard was not proud of his actions, though he suspected that if Camille ever found out, **_she_** would be proud of him.  It made him feel just a little bit better knowing that.

‘ **OI!** ’ Bellowed DI Poole, at the top of his voice. 

Manning stopped and turned slowly, grinning, to face his superior officer.  This was going to be good, he thought.  In the two seconds it took him to turn, Richard had closed the fifteen foot gap between them. 

 _‘I don’t know what your problem is_ **Sergeant** _Manning, but if you have something to say, you say it **TO MY FACE!**  You don’t have good old Dougie Anderson to hide behind now.  Remember him? Good mates you two as I recall.  Heard from Dougie lately John?  Do they let him write from Strangeways?’ _Richards face was getting redder by the second but it was not embarrassment that flushed his cheeks.  Years of bottled up emotion came flooding out. Several groups of people had gathered along the corridor to witness the commotion.

 _‘Now just remind me who it was that caught the corrupt copper who traded with a fellow alcoholic to mow down a complete stranger, in order to get his wife strangled so he could get his hands on her money?  Oh yeah! **STUPID BACKWARDS LITTLE SAINT-MARIE!**_ ’  Richard was spitting as he shouted, throwing his hands about wildly, his eyes wide and piercing.  It was actually a bit scary.  Had it been a dog, Manning would have been worried it had rabies.

‘ _My team may be small, populated by locals and about as well equipped as a 1980s cop show, but WE get results.  Each one of them does more work in one week than you do in a year. **AND I AM BLOODY PROUD OF THEM!**_ ’  Richard leant forward into Manning’s stunned face and hissed menacingly.  ‘ _Don’t you ever criticize or disrespect my team **again**_.’

 

With that DI Poole turned on his heel and strode out of the building, tugging his suitcase along behind him, leaving a thoroughly stunned DS gaping like a goldfish out of water.

 _Where the HELL had that come from?_ Thought Manning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Original Character - Detective Sergeant John Manning**
> 
> Please let me know what you think of the story. I'm not sure if I'm happy with it so your comments will help.


	3. Walking in the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having stormed out of the 'Yard', Richard takes a walk in the rain....

** Chapter 3 – Walking in the rain. **

****

Richard marched his way along the riverside to release the adrenaline that coursed through his veins.  He did not notice the insistent drizzle that had soaked through his suit, or the hundreds of people that had to _literally_ jump out of the way of the angry man with the case as he ploughed, headlong, through the rush hour crowds.  Guilt and shame shrouded him as his sodden clothes weighed heavy on his shoulders.  He hadn’t let anyone rile him like that since school.  Why had he let Manning get to him _now_? Why had he reacted to the oaf’s stupid comments?  He’d spent years being bullied by the Croydon ‘gang’, throwing worse insults at him than Manning had this afternoon and he had never blown up like that.  How long would it be before his reprimand came?  And who would deliver it – the MET or Commissioner Patterson?  He shouldn’t have snapped, it was conduct unbecoming and all that.

 

Eventually he stopped and leant on the wall.  The rain now falling heavier, but Richard did not notice.  He had walked a long way and through the now steady rain he saw the outline of Blackfriars Bridge as a train rattled by.  The railway bridge was sheltered from sight on one side.  He recalled it as a favourite spot with jumpers.  No-one would see until it was too late, and the river had dangerously fast under currents that could easily sweep a person away.  Many times the Police had to dredge the river to recover the body…..

A small voice in his head, that sounded oddly like Camille, reminded him that he hadn’t slept in nearly two days, he hadn't eaten in more than 12 hours, and that the bloody idiot had it coming!  Camille could tell him where he’d gone wrong.  But she wasn’t here.  At that moment he missed her.  When he was on Saint-Marie she was always there, ever present to guide him through.  It dawned on him that he actually rather liked that feeling.  Knowing that there was someone to help him understand a world he knew so little of.  But it wasn’t right to want her to always be by his side.  They were colleagues and rules said they couldn't be anything more.  He had to learn not to want to be with her.  Besides she didn’t want him that way did she?

As if some magic force negated the 4,000 miles that currently separated them, a chorus of ‘The Marseillaise’ began to emit from his pocket.  It could mean only one thing.  Camille had changed his ringtones, **_again_** , and Luddite that he was, he couldn't figure out how to change them back.  Catching sight of the caller ID as he answered, a small smile formed on his lips.

‘ _What is it, Camille?_ ’ He had hoped to mask his weariness but was unsuccessful.

‘ _Richard?  What’s wrong?’_ Trust her to see straight through him.

‘ _Sorry, Camille.  Long day, bad meeting and a seagull ate my lunch!’_ He could hear her giggle on the other end of the line.  In hindsight, it probably was quite comical.

‘ _Poor you.  I guess that explains why you didn't bother to let us know that you’d arrived in one piece?  Anyway, now that we know you haven’t been accidentally delivered to Dubai or somewhere, can you text me the details of your accommodation?  You left in a rush and forgot to leave an emergency contact.’_ Her voice was soothing to his soul.

‘ _Um, awwwwgggghhhh!_ ’ He yawned.  ‘ _Sorry!  I couldn't sleep on the flight.  Bad memories of the last prisoner escort I did.  I’ll go to the hotel then e-mail you?_ ’

‘ _Okay.  But don’t forget to eat too. I know how grumpy you get when you’re hungry.'_ When he yawned again, she giggled and said, _‘Goodnight Richard_.’

‘ _Nigh- hi -t Camille_.’  He yawned.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0

Not wanting to have to drag his suitcase with him onto the underground, Richard began to walk back along by the river towards his hotel.  The thought of all those people crammed into a train carriage made him feel claustrophobic.  He had always disliked the ‘sardines in a tin’ feeling of rush hour in London, but now it just seemed so much worse.  He preferred to walk along in the fresh cool air.  The rain that had been a drizzle was now falling heavily and he was wet through.  As he waited to cross the road, a black cab shot through the red light and causing the contents of the puddle that had formed in the gutter right where Richard stood to dowse his bottom half in muddy water.

 _Oh to be in England, now that autumns here!_ Thought Richard, as he stalked grumpily across the road.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0

 

Back at his hotel, the computer system _finally_ allowing him to check-in, and having found his room among the maze of identical corridors, Richard closed the door and flicked on the lamp by the bed.  He sent Camille a quick text with the details she requested rather than dig out his laptop.   Having peeled off his wet suit, tie and sodden shirt, he collapsed into the bed.  It was delightful in the warm, snuggling embrace of a thick duvet.  He turned off the lamp and fell quickly into a deep dreamless sleep.  He hadn't even bothered to put on his pyjamas.

 

0-0-0-0-0-0

 

Richard lay in the darkness of his hotel room unable to sleep.  He’d gotten here about 8pm last night and collapsed into bed almost as soon as he’d shut the door.  Total exhaustion enabled him to sleep soundly, but now he was being assaulted by all manner of noises, the cacophony outside his window preventing him from slumbering further.  Every bus brake squeal, taxi door slam, and blaring white van horn jarred on his nerves.  London was awake it seemed and without a care for jet-lagged Detective Inspectors it was dragging him along with it. 

He angrily threw the pillow, with which he had been unsuccessfully trying to drown out the noise, towards the window, flicked on the lamp, and huffed out of bed.  Stomping cross to the en-suite bathroom, he recoiled at the sight that greeted him in the mirror.  His hair stood out in all directions, his eyes were red and puffy, and dark stubble had sprouted across his chin.  Richard yawned and rubbed at his face, the skin feeling slightly sticky – both from his long journey the day before and the pollution of the city.

  Only then did it register that he was _naked_!  Well almost.  All he wore was a pair of blue and white striped boxers and pair of grey woollen socks.  _If only Camille could see me now,_ he thought still half-asleep as he turned on the shower.

 

Showered, shaved and dressed DI Richard Poole felt human again.  Sitting at the small table in his room he turned on his laptop, making use of the free WI-FI to check his e-mails, and the complementary tea to make himself a brew.  After an initial cull, he quickly despatched a couple of replies to the Commissioners secretary, and forwarded one to the forensics lab on Guadeloupe. When he’d been working in London he would receive over a hundred emails a day.  The MET relied on computer programmes to collate evidence and information.  In London, where officers were often on different shifts or at different stations, it helped minimize the environmental and logistical impact of thousands of bits of paper, and kept things tidy, but the downside was that _every_ time something was input into the system, _everyone_ connected with the case was automatically sent an email.  And when the system crashed, very little work could be done.

Now, on Saint-Marie, unless he had an active case he’d be lucky to get a hundred emails a fortnight.  Richard was happy with their whiteboard and pen.  It didn't rely on electricity, the supply of which could be intermittent, especially during hurricane season.  Whereas the email system isolated people from each other, each person tied to their desk, the whiteboard brought the team together, working as one to solve the crime. 

He wasn't surprised that there were no messages from Camille or the boys.  They were more than capable of running things without him.  This thought left him feeling a bit odd.  He considered his team so far away, they each had their own personality, their own quirks but together they were a force to be reckoned with.  His words to John Manning played over in his head.  He _was_ proud of the team. It wasn't like Croydon where his colleagues made fun of him, made him feel ashamed to be who he was.  He never felt good enough, always left on the fringes.  But now, on a tiny island in the Caribbean he had found a group of people who, although they didn't often understand him, accepted him for who he was.  Every pedantic, demanding and grumpy part of him.  In a rare moment of spontaneity Richard decided that there was somewhere he needed to go.  He had to test out a theory.

 

A text message to his mobile phone made Richard jump.  It was from DCI Darwin.

_My office.  9.30am._

A wave of dread washed over him as he recalled his actions the day before.  Just under three hours until he learned his fate.


	4. Awaiting Sentence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are things about to get worse for poor Richard?

 

** Chapter 4 – Awaiting Sentence  **

 

At 9.15 am Detective Inspector Richard Poole was sat outside DCI Darwins office in New Scotland Yard.  He felt like a criminal awaiting sentence for murder.  If the DCI opened the door wearing a black square upon his head it would not have surprised Richard - this could be the death of his career after all. 

He had never had a reprimand at work before.  At school, yes he’d had many a beating from his house mother, or one of the masters; usually for some misdemeanour, performed by another boy, but for which he’d gotten the blame.  Protesting his innocence just resulted in more strikes, either for supposed lying or being a tell-tale.  In the end he’d given up trying and just accepted the fate in silence. 

He got caned by the masters, for being too smart and asking a question to which they had no answer.  It was pre-internet and google.  Information was kept in vast libraries, cathedrals of knowledge.  The young Richard would often retreat to the school library, hidden away among the shelves of books, escaping the jealous bullies and teachers too insecure in their own knowledge to recognise and nurture his curiosity.

He began to wonder what he might do when he was discharged dishonourably from the force.  What _did_ disgraced ex-coppers do to earn a living?  Perhaps he could go back to university and be a mature student?  It drew some appeal but it would cost a lot to study now, and he didn’t relish being among a class of spotty teenagers hell bent on drinking and partying away three years of their lives.  And what would his Dad think of him?  If he was disappointed now, he would disown his son when he found out why he had left the force…

 

DCI Darwin’s dulcet tones cut through his thoughts.

‘ _Ah!  Inspector Poole.  Please come in.’_

Taking a deep steadying breath, DI Richard Poole stood and walked towards the metaphorical gallows….

 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

 

The office was as he had imagined, only smaller.  A fake wood desk dominated the space, and while a line of filing cabinets spread along one wall, bookcases lined another.  The carpet was shallow and rough against his shoes.  On the desk there was a photo of a rather plain woman, in a silver frame.                  _Most likely his wife_ , thought Richard.  

Darwin gestured to a chair, taking the large fake leather swivelling one behind the desk for himself.  The smeared and grimy window behind him ran the full width of the room and had a fabulous view.  Of the brick wall opposite.  A forlorn looking plastic plant sat almost hidden under years worth of dust on the windowsill, hemmed in by equally dusty books and files.  The only word Richard could think of was…. _bland_. 

Poole stared at the impassive face of the man opposite.  Darwin was giving nothing away with his expression as he settled at his desk.  Had it been Commissioner Patterson, Richard might have expected to see anger there, but this man was as expressionless as his office was soulless.

                ‘ _Thank you for coming this morning Inspector.’_ The tone was grave. _‘I apologise for dragging you in again, but I felt it was important to deal with the situation sooner rather than later and I wanted to talk to you in person_.’ 

Richard gulped back the bile that rose up his throat.  _Here it comes,_ he thought. _Good-bye job, hello dole._

‘ _Inspector Poole.  I would like to formally apologise on behalf of my department for the disgraceful and wholly inappropriate behaviour of Detective Sergeant Manning yesterday afternoon.’_

Poole gaped like a fish.

‘ _I’m sorry?’_ Surely he had misheard.  He had been in the wrong for reacting, not Manning.

_‘Don’t apologise.’_ Said Darwin, misunderstanding Pooles utterance.

 ‘ _Manning was out of line. You are not only a visiting officer, but you are his senior in rank.  He was rude, and insubordinate.  I heard about your little, erm….conversation? In the corridor, after our meeting.’_

Richard blushed deeply with regret and embarrassment.

‘ _Good on you!  Standing up to him like that.  He needed bringing down a peg or two and you did it.  I thank you for that.  When I heard, I did a little digging, reading into your file.  I hadn’t realised that you had worked with Douglas Anderson too.’_

_‘Yes, Sir.  At Croydon.’_ Richard couldn’t look the man in the eye.

_‘Hmm, figures. He was a DS at Sutton when I was there.  Odious little man.  Lazy and boorish.  I was glad to see the back of him.  I apologise for foisting him onto you.’_

Richard nodded an acknowledgement.

‘ _Well it’s over now.  Manning has been put on a week’s suspension.  I will not tolerate such behaviour in my department.  I know others may see it as ‘banter’_ (he used air quotation marks at this), _being one of the boys, but it is bullying and it is **not** acceptable_.’  Darwin saw DI Poole blush again. 

 ‘ _Thank you again for your help with our case Inspector.  I will let your superior know how helpful you have been. I will let you know what is decided about Ms Woodwards return to Saint-Marie.  I hope that we can still get her convicted of manslaughter if not murder.  But if we are able to get her help to recover some of the Lindeman money in exchange for a lesser sentence…..Well, it would be a great comfort to those who lost so much.’_

_‘I understand, sir.’_ Richard replied _. ‘As long as justice is done for the family that are left behind.’_

‘ _Of course.’_ Said Darwin inclining his head.  The two men stood and shook hands. 

As Richard turned to leave Darwin remembered something.

‘ _Oh, before you go.  I believe we have something that belongs to you.’_ He rounded his desk and plucked Richards mac from the coat stand, shoehorned into a corner of the room.

‘ _Guess you get used to not needing one on that island of yours.’_ He joked as he handed Richard the coat.

_‘Yes sir.  Thank you.  I don’t actually recall the last time I wore a coat while out on the island, but I’m sure my DS would try and have me sectioned if she saw me try.’_ DI Poole let out a huff of amusement and half-smiled, imagining Camille’s reaction to him carrying a raincoat on Saint-Marie.

_‘Sounds like you landed on your feet there.  I can’t actually recall the last time I got to go out to a crime scene.  Just a desk pilot now.’_ Darwin waved his hands expansively at the office around him.

_‘Well, it isn’t always much fun, sir.  Most of the time the flies beat us to the body.  The average daily temperature is around 28 degrees, and the sun shines about 300 days a year.  And there’s only one place on the whole island to get a decent cup of tea!’_

_‘Leave now, before I tie you up and take your place.’_ Darwin laughed, patting Poole on the shoulder.Richard smiled and walked away.

Darwin watched him walk down the corridor. He could imagine how hard it had been for this quiet unassuming man to work with Anderson, and Manning, and others like them.  They were old school, not suited to the modern MET.  From what he had seen yesterday, it was amazing that the poor guy had any self-confidence left to pursue criminals and solve crimes.  But Poole had solved a case that would have had his team stumped.  _I could use a man like him,_ thought Darwin to himself as he walked back to his desk and began to type an email.


	5. Memory Lane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end of chapter for notes

**Chapter 5 - Memory Lane**

 

Sometime later that morning the curtains twitched at number 27 Maple Drive, Croydon.  The little old spinster lady who lived with her fourteen cats, in the large Edwardian terraced house, was watching the shifty looking man standing by her front garden wall.  He’d been standing there for at least fifteen minutes just staring at the house opposite.  They were a nice family that lived in the house. They’d moved in just over a year ago and were no trouble, although their children did have the tendency to scream and shout when they played on the drive, which did upset Mr Woo, her elderly Siamese. 

The stranger watching the house didn’t look like a burglar, but you couldn’t be too careful. He was smartly dressed in suit and tie with a proper old fashioned mac draped over one arm, she noted, but although she couldn’t see his face she just knew he was up to no good.  Why else would he be loitering outside her house?  There had been a spate of thefts in the area recently, several of the bridge club having been targeted.  Maybe he was one of those conmen that talked their way inside honest people’s houses and wouldn’t leave until they had divested them of their entire life savings…   

Suddenly the man turned round and caught her staring.  He pierced her with his green eyes and smiled straight at her, giving a little wave as she dropped the curtains back into place.  His face looked vaguely familiar.  Perhaps she had seen him on crime watch.  It was most likely.  _Normal_ people didn’t go around staring at other people’s houses.  She put her hand on her telephone.  _If the doorbell rang she would dial 999….._

 

Richard walked away down the street.  He had sensed the little old lady watching him.  She’d always been a bit like that, liking to spy on people and watch the goings on in the street.  You had no need of a CCTV camera with Miss Spry around.  He was glad she hadn’t come out and invited him in.  The woman had at least a dozen cats and he really wasn’t keen on the creatures; or the smell of their litter trays!

He’d gone to look at the house he’d so rapidly vacated some eighteen months ago, surprised at how hard it had been to recognise the place he’d lived in for fifteen years.  Technically it was still _his_ house as he owned it, but it just didn’t _feel_ like his ‘home’ anymore.   The road was still quiet, the houses were all very well kept and the area was still well to do, but it was bland.  There was no variety, no distinction.    It was good to see that the people renting the house were looking after it. 

He could still remember the day he bought the four bedroom detached house at auction for a knock down price.  Back when he was young, and optimistic that he might someday find someone willing to share a life with him there.  He’d been 24 and it was the first place he’d owned outright, bought with some of his Granddads inheritance money.  The house had needed some work to modernise it but Richard wasn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty in that respect.  When he wasn’t working he had toiled away to renovate the place, utilising skills his Granddad taught him during his teenage school holidays.  But the house held no emotional attachment for Richard.   It was just a place to lay his head.  There were no meaningful memories attached to it.

 

Richard walked back towards the town to get something to eat.   He passed the White Hart and was saddened to see that it had been absorbed by one of the pub restaurant chains that seemed to take over all the pubs now.  It was open for lunch, so he decided to pop in for old times sake.

                Stepping through the door he was stunned to see the cosy wooden bar replaced by a modern gloss white and chrome monstrosity.  The snug had gone, replaced by more bright modern monochrome seating and tables.

                ‘ _Table for one, sir?_ ’ Asked a petite blonde woman, dressed again in black and white.  Had the bottles behind the bar not held coloured liquids he might have worried he’d gone colour blind.

                ‘ _Um..Pardon?’_   Richard said, blinking against the harsh overhead lighting.

                ‘ _Would you like a table, sir?  We don’t serve just drinks until after 7pm._ ’ The waitress explained with forced patience.

She showed him to a table in the corner, and handed him a menu.  He ordered a pint of London Pride and something to eat.  The menu was international, the prices steep.  When the meal arrived he was shocked by how little was on the plate.

_Catherine charges half as much, and at least you get a plateful,_ he mused as he quickly demolished his outdoor bred Gloucestershire pork and leek sausage, on a bed of crushed charlotte potatoes suffused with butter, in a rich caramelised onion coulis.  _Expensive bangers and mash_ , he moaned inwardly.  He declined dessert.

 

As he emerged, the sky looked sulky.  It seemed to match his mood well.  The White Hart had been one of the few special places in Richards life, and now it was gone, swallowed by the tide of mass market chains that seemed to be squeezing out the small business these days .

He had lived in the area for years but looking around now he wondered how he’d ever managed.  The depressing reality was that he hadn’t _lived_ here but merely existed.  Croydon was just as he had remembered and yet it felt different.  The whole place was concrete grey.  The houses, the shops, the pavements, even the statues in the shopping area were grey!  Well that wasn’t entirely true.  There _was_ colour but it seemed faded and dull.  Even the sky was overcast and grey.  The weak light made everything look pale and washed out.  People rushed about like ants, scurrying to their work or lives, absorbed in their phones or headphones.  It was all so busy, yet everyone was isolated from each other.

It was nothing like Saint-Marie.  There, colour assaulted your eyes everywhere you looked.  Perhaps he should get his eyesight checked.  Maybe all that sunshine in the Caribbean had somehow affected his colour perception.  Heading towards the shopping centre, he passed an estate agents office.   Something in his peripheral vision caused him to stop suddenly.  Turning his attention to the details in the window, he blinked twice; convinced he was reading the numbers wrong.  But no, it still read the same.  He was _definitely_ getting his eyesight checked after lunch. 

Curiosity piqued, Richard stepped inside. 

0-0-0-0-0-0

Half an hour, and one dreadfully acid cup of tea later  Richard emerged with a couple of leflets of houses for sale in the area, and a better idea of just how much his own house was worth.  His eyes had almost watered when the agent gave him an estimate.

                ‘ _Of course, I’d have to actually view the property to give you an exact valuation, Sir._ ’

                ‘ _Yes.  Of course.  Um…How long do houses take to sell round here anyway?_ ’ He might as well ask.

                ‘ _Well, in your road we’ve sold three houses in the last year.  It’s quite popular, and now is a good time to sell, what with parents looking to buy houses near the good schools.  I think the last one sold in 48 hours_.’

The agent smiled as Richard gulped loudly. 

 

On the way back towards the train station, Richard got to thinking.  When he had been sent to Sainte-Marie eighteen months ago, it was only supposed to be for a week or so, until he had solved the murder of DI Charlie Hulme.  But then, after some ruthless engineering by his former commanding officer, in collusion with his current one, he had been seconded to the Royal Sainte-Marie Police Force; transferred without any consultation on his part.  Richard had only taken enough clothing to last him a week, judging that the hotel that he was staying in would have laundry facilities to wash his clothes in readiness for a second week if needed.  But as with most things on Sainte-Marie, it hadn’t turned out the way he had envisaged.  He had ended up having to stay / live in Charlies old house, his suitcase had gone missing for almost a week, and then he had been dumped into a whole new world that he was neither prepared for nor desiring of.

When he had been so suddenly transplanted halfway across the world there had been a lot of loose ends to sort out.  One of which had been his house.  Having had a Grandfather who was a property developer Richard knew the sensible thing to do was to let his house until such time as he could arrange a transfer back to the UK.  His Mum, being the daughter of said property developer, had packed up everything in her sons house and arranged for it to be put into storage in her garage.  Perhaps this visit would be his opportunity to top-up his meagre wardrobe and take more suitable clothing back with him. 

Stopping just outside the train station, Richard thought for a moment, then turned around and began to walk away, deep in thought.  There was one more stop he wanted to make before he headed back to his hotel.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE NOTE:  
> I have never been to Croydon and I know very little about the town. I claim artistic licence. For the purposes of this story it is not a very inspiring place. However, please do not be offended of you think Croydon is nice. I do not mean any slur on the town. Honest! Just think of it as a Croydon in an alternative Universe.


	6. A grateful EX-colleague

** Chapter 6 – A Grateful Ex- colleague **

****

Ten minutes later, Richard was standing outside the grey concrete hulk that was Croydon police station, a place that had been his second home for fifteen years.  It was the third time that day he’d made an impulsive decision.  If this behaviour carried on he was going to have to speak to the Doctor about it.  Richard had always been the sort of person that thought about his actions and _all_ the consequences _before_ he made a decision.  He didn’t do whims.

_Perhaps Camille’s impulsive nature is beginning to have an effect on me_ , he mused, as he set his shoulders and began to climb the six concrete steps to the station entrance.

There were no happy memories of his time here.  He had arrived as a newly promoted Detective Constable, full of eagerness to help solve the crimes afflicting the people of South East London.  He had done ok as a beat copper in north London, but he had wanted to handle the more complicated cases, solve the trickier puzzles and Croydon was seemingly the best opportunity on offer.  How wrong he had been!  Moving from department to department, Richard had never fully settled in anywhere.   He was good at his job but he struggled to fit in with his colleagues.  Then Doug Anderson took over the murder team, and it was boarding school all over again. 

The names started on Dougs first day, the practical jokes after his first week.  As the shy and mild mannered one, he had been the easy target.  At least Doug hadn’t picked on the lone female in the group.  Well, not straight away.  Within a month, people Richard had worked perfectly well alongside for years began to cut him out of conversations, treat him differently.  He was pushed to the far edges, ostracized and ridiculed.  No matter how many cases he solved, he was made to feel inferior, worthless.  He worked harder and longer than anyone else but to no avail, until in the end his life was his work and his work was his life.  Richard Poole the person ceased to exist, he was just Richard Poole the Police Detective, tucked into his tiny corner of the office next to the ladies loos.

 

As he entered the reception area Richard noted how sterile and unwelcoming the place was.  It was grey.   Grey walls, grey doors, grey floor, grey counter.  Apart from a row of three connected moulded hard blue plastic seats sat tight against a wall, and bolted to the floor, and the silvery etched coat of arms of the Metropolitan Police on the front of the counter, it was a masterpiece of various shades of grey.  Tatty posters clung desperately to the walls and each other, warning all to ‘keep your valuables safe’ and to ‘call 101 if it was a non-emergency’.  Dirt congregated in the corners where no-one had swept for some time.  Walking across the floor, stickiness clung to the soles of his shoes, making a creaking noise as he progressed.

_Nothing like the colourful, characterful, but homely and_ always _clean station in Honoré_ , thought Richard as he stopped by the front desk.

 

There was no-one actually there to greet people at the counter.  No smiling face of law enforcing helpfulness.  Instead a handwritten piece of paper, sellotaped to a grubby former doorbell, to **RING FOR ATTENTION!**   He did as requested, and after five minutes a large, sullen faced, middle-aged woman appeared from behind a door.  She was dressed in a royal blue blouse and navy skirt; the uniform of a civilian assistant to the Metropolitan Police force.  Civilian assistants had been introduced as another of the cost saving measures enforced by government budgetary cuts.

 

‘ _Yes?_ ’  She said, almost as if irritated by his interruption. 

Having been able to see through the glass panelled door from whence she came, Richard knew that prior to her arrival she had only been drinking tea and flicking through a magazine, so her manner seemed a trifle unfair.

‘ _Erm, yes.  I wonder if you might be able to help me?’_ Richard asked politely. _‘Could I leave a message for one of your Detectives, please?_ ’  He even remembered to smile when he spoke.

The woman gave a resigned sigh, and began to hunt around for a scrap of paper.  Richard pulled his notebook from his inside pocket, along with a pen and waved it to indicate he’d come prepared.  The woman just glared.

‘ _Could you, erm, give this to Detective Chief Inspector Grahame Mullins, please?_ ’  He asked as he scribbled.

‘ _Who shall I say it is from, sir?_ ’ asked the female, whose name badge indicated was known to the world as Martha.

‘ _Oh, erm.’_ He hadn’t thought that far ahead.  What should he say?  Did he want Mullins to know it was from him?  Mullins had never understood his fascination with puzzles and the man had little patience.  Maybe this was time to get his own back.  Richard smiled.

 ‘ _Please say it is from a grateful ex-colleague_. _Thank you.’_   He handed over the note and walked away without a backward glance.

 

Martha Collins took a peek at the note to quench her female curiosity.  This guy didn’t look like the usual nutters that frequented the station.  Her eyes came to rest on a small drawing in the corner of the page that looked like a desert island with a shed and a palm tree on it.  The strange man had, in impeccably neat hand writing, written two words on the paper.

Thanks Guv!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I've never visited Croydon Police Station and I'm sure it is very nice in its own way but in my world it is not.


	7. Beside the Seaside

Richard had only two days left before he headed back to the Caribbean and today he was going to the seaside.  Late last night, he had decided that he really should take the opportunity to go and visit his parents.  He hadn’t seen them in two years and if his Mum ever found out he’d been in London and hadn’t come up for a visit, she would be really upset. 

Stepping off the train, Richard embraced the wave of nostalgia that hit as he took in a first lungful of tangy scented air.  The smell of rotting seaweed, salt and ozone flooded his nostrils as the screams of seagulls looping overhead assailed his ears, and the harsh slap of the sea breeze stung his skin.  A broad smile broke out across his face as he was transported back to those wonderful childhood holidays spent in a caravan just up the coast.  Long carefree days searching for seashells along the shore, building sandcastles on the beach, and trembling with cold, sheltering from the rain, eating greasy fish and chips and licking the salt and vinegar residue from his numb fingers. 

Frinton-on-Sea appeared to be a genteel place, not brash and loud like Clacton just a few miles along the coast.  The Edwardian buildings stood proudly along the main street, despite their slightly faded exteriors.  There were no chain stores, save for the Co-Op, and the streets were clean and tidy.  Richard could see why his parents had chosen to retire here. 

The Pooles moved to Essex four years ago when Superintendent Richard (Dickie) Poole (Richards father) retired from the Leicestershire Constabulary.  Richards mum had emailed him photos of the house before and after they had renovated the place, while the garden became his father’s pride and joy. 

As he ambled along, Richard noted that there _were_ quite a number of charity shops in the town, their windows filled with the unwanted detritus of other people’s lives.  The wind blew in strong gusts, rattling the shutters of the numerous closed or empty shops  and Richard walked quicker to ward off the cold air.  The streets were quiet, despite it being a Thursday morning. The few people around were of his parents age or older.  Passing the bakers, Richard saw a pair of bored looking shop assistants filing their nails while they waited for a customer to come in and brighten their day by buying a sticky bun, or crusty bloomer.

Richard had tried several times this morning to ring his parents to forewarn of his arrival, but there had been no answer.  He felt awkward just turning up, not wanting to disrupt their plans for the day, but the lack of response meant he had no choice.  Surely it would be better to just appear rather than not bother at all.  Turning the corner into the road that ran just behind the promenade he checked off the door numbers until he reached number 74.

When Richard rang the old-fashioned doorbell, there was no answer.  After waiting a few minutes, he tried again, but there was still no answer.  He peered through the windows and tried to look over the back gate, but there appeared to be no-one in.  Come to think of it, Dads car wasn’t in the drive either.  Standing under the porch, trying to decide what to do next, a high pitched voice called out to him.

_‘Coo-ee!  Coo-ee!  Can I help you young man?’_

The melodious voice was attached to an older woman attired in tweed, pearls and sensible brown brogue shoes.  She looked about seventy but appeared sprightly with it, and as she crunched up the gravel drive, Richard watched her blue rinse perm bobbing in time with her steps.

 _‘Erm.  Sorry.  Yes.  Do you know if Mr and Mrs Poole are at home at all?’_ Richard asked.

 _‘No, sorry dear.  They’re away on holiday.  Gone to visit her brother in Scotland I think.  Can I help?’_  

It struck Richard how free this woman had been with information about his parents.  He could have been anyone, and she had just told him that the house was empty and might possibly be so for days.  He would have to have a word with Mum and Dad about who they trusted with what in future.

It also occurred to him that now he had had a wasted trip.  He had planned to collect some additional clothing and other items to take back to Saint-Marie with him.

  _‘I don’t suppose you have a key do you?’_ It was worth a try. He’d come a long way and he really didn’t want to leave empty handed.  Besides when would his next opportunity be?

 _‘I might.’_ She said as she dug around in her jacket pocket.  Then suddenly reality seemed to strike as she stopped and eyed him with suspicion _._

 _’Who are you young man and what do you want with my neighbours key?’_ Her pleasant tone was transformed to one of deep mistrust.

 _‘Oh.  I’m their son Richard.  Pleased to meet you……?’_ He held out his hand for her to shake, but the older lady just looked down her nose at him with suspicion.

 _‘Impossible.  Their son is a Policeman who works overseas.  Jamaica I believe.’_ The woman’s response was emphasized by her shaking head.

 _‘No.  It’s Sainte-Marie actually.’_ Richard dug his warrant card out of his pocket and handed it to the woman, who stared at it, then him _._

 _‘I’ve never heard of the place.  I don’t believe you.’_ She didn’t offer to give him back his card though.Richard sighed.

_‘It’s a small Island near Guadeloupe.  Not many people have heard of the place, but I am the Chief of Police there.’_

A cold wind began to blow some fallen leaves in a circle on the gravel as the two eyed each other.

At that moment an elderly man came plodding up the street carrying two bags of shopping. On seeing Richard in the driveway the man bellowed, waggled a shopping bag at him and bustled forward as fast as he could.  With legs bowed by arthritis this was not at great speed.  Richard turned towards the noise and smiled at the pensioner.

‘ _Hello Uncle Gordon.  Good to see you!_ ’  Richard said as his father’s old school friend reached the bottom of the drive.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Gordon Samuels had met Dickie Poole on their first day at The Royal Boys School in rural Leicestershire.  Both had lost their fathers during the war and the RAF paid for them to be educated at the single sex boarding school.  From the moment they met the boys became inseparable, and were still best friends over sixty years later.  Each had been best man at the other mans wedding, and godparent to the others only child.  After years of progressively worsening arthritis, last year Gordon and his wife Elsie decided to sell up their dairy farm and follow their lifelong friends, Dickie and Jennifer, south to the balmy Essex coast.

0-0-0-0-0-0

‘ _What’s you doin’ ‘ere, lad?  Why ain’t you sunning yourself on that island o’ yours?’_ Asked Gordon, leaning on the gatepost at the bottom of the drive.  The elderly lady who lived across the road had stalked off haughtily almost as soon as Gordon arrived.

 _‘Oh I had to escort a prisoner back to London.’_ Richard replied.

 _‘Your Mum’ll be blowed to have missed yer lad.  An’ they only lef’ this morning.  Gone ta see yer Uncle Stephen in Scotland for the weekend.  They won’t be back ‘til Tuesday. ‘Ow long you staying for?’_ Gordon removed his flat cap and scratched the top of his head nervously as he delivered the news.

 _‘I fly back the day after tomorrow.  I had wanted to pick up some of my stuff from the garage, but I guess that’ll have to wait now.’_ Richard said a frown forming across his brow.

 _‘Nonsense lad!’_ Gordon almost shouted with a smile. _‘I’ve a spare key at ‘ome.  We’ll go get it.  ‘Sides, Elsie’ll kill me if I don’t bring you to visit_ _.’_ Gordon elbowed the younger man in the ribs with a twinkle in his eye.

_0-0-0-0-0-0_

When they stuck their heads into the kitchen to pick up the keys to the Poole’s house, Elsie squealed with delight.  She threw her arms around Richards shoulders and hugged him warmly as she planted a kiss on his cheek.  Sliding her hands down his arms she held onto his hands, and stood back to take in the man she hadn’t seen for some time.

                ‘ _You’re looking well, Richard.  But so pale!  I thought you’d be all tanned from all that time in the sun._ ’

                ‘ _Yes, well_ ,’ He said, discreetly disentangling himself from his godmothers grasp,  ‘ _I..er  don’t tan I freckle.  Plus I use factor 50 lotion and keep out of the sun as much as possible.  Most of the time I am in the shade trying to find somewhere cool.  It might sound wonderful but it is always boiling._ ’  He neglected to mention that he always wore his suit and jacket, so the sun couldn’t get at much skin even of it wanted to.

‘ _Oh your Mum’ll be so disappointed she missed you.  She was just saying t’other day how she hadn’t heard from you in a while_.’  Elsie said sadly.  She knew how much Jennifer missed her only boy.

A tinge of red crept up Richards cheeks as her statement made him feel quite guilty.  He recalled that Camille had had to tell him to call his parents after Hurricane Irma a while back, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have bothered.   He really should make more of an effort to keep in touch with his family.  They _were_ all he had, and most likely ever would be.

‘ _Sorry Aunty Elsie.  It’s been a bit busy at work_.’  He lied unable to meet her eyes.

‘ _Um.. I was going to take Mum and Dad out to lunch.  I don’t suppose you would care to join me instead?_ ’

Aunt Elsie wouldn’t hear of it.  

‘ _I’ll cook you lunch.  Why do you want to go wasting your money when I can cook you a proper meal?  How does Shepherds pie sound?’_

 _‘Really Aunty.  I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’_ Richard tried to protest, but was cut off by a stern look from his godmother.

 _‘Nonsense.  Now you sit down there and I’ll put the kettle on.’_ With that she turned her back on Richard and he knew the conversation was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if you think you're going gaga - I've edited this chapter! Hopefully the second version is better than the first.


	8. Discussions at Dinner

_‘So, Richard, tell us all about this island of yours then_.’ Aunty Elsie said, as she ladled gravy over a plateful of shepherd’s pie, and handed it to him.  Taking the heavily laden plate Richard began to explain.

‘ _Well, it’s not_ my _island.’_ He chuckled. _‘At various times in the past, it has been ruled by the French, the Dutch and the British.  Until the 1970s it was under French rule, so about half the population is French or of French descent.  But the people are generally quite decent_.’  He took a few mouthfuls of food and ate appreciatively.  It was melt in the mouth tender. 

 _Wonder if she might give me the recipe for Catherine,_ he thought as he swallowed, before continuing.

‘ _The island itself is small, a bit bigger than Jersey I guess.  About half is covered in rainforest and there’s a volcano.  There are lots of beaches, so there is always sand everywhere.  And it’s hot.  The average daily temperature is about 28 degrees.  One day it reached 42 degrees in the shade!_ ’ 

It occurred to Richard just how little he knew about the place he had lived for the last eighteen months.  Camille had tried to teach him, taking him to the museum and suggesting a trip to see the waterfalls, but he had resisted.  She had been so kind to try and find things that he might enjoy and he had been so rude to ignore that.  He would try and rectify that when he got back.  Perhaps it _would_ be nice to go somewhere new, and not because some poor unfortunate person had happen to be found dead there.

‘ _Your Mum said you lived at the beach?  What’s the house like?_ ’ It was Gordons turn to ask a question.

‘ _Imagine a large shed and you get the idea.’_ Gordon chuckled at the thought, while Elsies eyes widened in disbelief.

 _‘Seriously!’_ said Richard _. ‘The place is a sort of wooden shack with a veranda across two sides.  It’s only about 50 yards from the waters edge and there’s a tree growing through one end.  It’s always stifling inside so you have to leave the doors open, even though there is never much of a breeze.  The problem with that is the local chickens like to come in and lay their eggs in the mornings.  I don’t know where they come from, but many is the morning I have woken up to find I am sharing my bed with a chicken_.’  Laughter filled the small kitchen.

‘ _Oh.  And there’s a lizard who thinks the place is his!  He comes and goes as he pleases, but he likes mashed mangoes and flies.  I called him Harry as I think he looks a bit like Prince Harry.  But don’t tell Mum_.’  Richards Mum was a staunch Royalist and wouldn’t be happy knowing her son had named a lizard after an heir to the throne.

‘ _So, living at the beach, do you get to swim often?_ ’ asked Gordon, as he forked another mouthful of food in. ‘ _My physiotherapist Tracey reckons swimming is good for you.’_ Richard noticed the glint in the old mans eyes, and the little amused shake of the head from his wife.

‘ _NO! Um, I don’t go in the water.  There are too many prickly and spiky things.  I am assured there are no sharks in the shallow waters but I did go for a paddle once and I stood on something spiny.  It really hurt for ages afterwards_.’

 **‘** _What are the people like that you work with?_ ’ Elsie asked. Jennifer had told her that Richard seemed to be getting quite fond of his colleagues as he would often mention them in his emails and infrequent phone calls.  It was never like that when he worked in London.

 ‘ _They’re…..fantastic._ ’  Richard saw the amused looks on their faces. 

‘ _No they really are.  I’ve never had a team like them_.’ Richard put down his knife and fork, using his hands to emphasise his points.

‘ _First off, there’s Dwayne.  He’s about fifty but acts like he’s twenty-one.  Pretends to be a bit of a bad boy, but underneath there’s a heart of gold. I’ve never been so terrified as when he rides the bike and I’m stuffed into the side-car.  You’re about six inches off the ground and whistling along at fifty miles an hour.  You just have to cling on for dear life!_ ’  Richard grimaced and made two tight fists in front of him, as if to demonstrate the technique.

‘ _He knows just about everyone on the island though, and has the most fabulous intelligence network.  You don’t need google when Dwayne’s around.  And he’s a real ladies man, always has a date or a pretty lady to talk to. A ‘friend’ of his, well her cat was poisoned from some food she ‘recycled’.’_ He used air quotes for “recycled”.

 _‘It was the poisoned cat that led us to uncover a double murder plot.  Well, anyway, once the case was solved Dwayne heard that someone had found a litter of kittens, and he goes and buys one for this woman, just to cheer her up._ ’

‘ _Then there’s Fidel. He’s married and they have a little girl called Rosie. He’s young, keen, almost endlessly cheerful and a real dab hand at forensics.  He just passed his Sergeants exams.  He heard about five minutes before I got told I was coming back to London for a few days.  Oh! I’ll have missed his Stripes party_.’  Richard looked genuinely sorry about this, causing Elsie to raise her eyebrow.  Richard chuckled when he saw her face.

‘ _One thing I have learnt about the people of Saint-Marie is that they like to party.  It rarely gets out of hand, but they celebrate just about anything.’_ He began to count on his fingers.

 _‘Let’s see, we had Erzulie, the voodoo festival of love, then there was a party to celebrate the full moon, one for the spring equinox, one for the autumn one, Christmas, New Years, I forget how many saints days.  Just about anything is an excuse for a party, so I am sure that Catherine will have a party to celebrate Fidel getting his stripes._ ’

‘ _Catherine?_ ’ asked Gordon with a hint of query in his tone.  He remembered Dickie saying something about Richard mentioning a young lady quite a bit recently in his emails, and he was sure the name began with C.

‘ _Yes, Catherine owns a bar called La Kaz.  She’s French, from Lyon I think, and moved to the Caribbean when she was about 19.  Camille told me she’d been travelling with some friends, fell in love with a local man and got married. Bit of a whirlwind romance by all accounts.  They opened a bar on Saint-Marie that Catherine still runs.  Though the man upped and left when Camille was only six._ ’

‘ _And who is Camille?_ ’ Elsie could see a definite glint in Richards eye.  According to Jennifer he had been mentioning this Camille quite a bit recently.

‘ _Ah, yes sorry.’_ Richard grinned without realising.

 _‘Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey.  Catherine’s daughter and my second in command.  Trained in Paris, shot twice and three commendations for bravery.  Instinctive, smart, impulsive and very French!  She takes after her mother when it comes to temperament.  There are times when I think I’d be safer_ in _the volcano.  But she’s a good egg and I wouldn’t solve half the cases I do without her.  I arrested her once actually._ ’  Richard scooped up the rest of the meltingly soft pie, putting it into his mouth and chewed slowly.  Gordon and Elsie just looked at each other, then him.

‘ _You arrested your Sergeant?’_ Gordon swallowed hard.  He wanted to know more.  Richard swallowed his food and contemplated how to explain.

‘ _Camille wasn’t my Sergeant back then_ , _Lily Thompson was.  But yes I arrested Camille.  Actually I arrested Lily too, but then she_ was _a murderer._ ’  The puzzled frowns meant they expected more explanation.

‘ _When I was first sent to Saint-Marie I was investigating the murder of a British policeman who had been found shot dead in a locked room.  Turns out Lily had shot her boss when he found out she was corrupt.  Camille was undercover, working a case that intersected with mine, but the Commissioner didn’t think to tell me.  I caught Camille searching a suspect’s boat, thought she was involved in the murder and ended up arresting her.  I’m glad I did in the end otherwise I wouldn’t get to work with her and she really is a key part of the team.  Mind you, we didn’t get on at first_.’ 

Richard then proceeded to tell the story of how, on their first case together Camille had had to give him a dressing down for treating her like a probationer and not the experienced detective she was.

‘ _She was quite right.  When I think about it I_ was _quite rude.  I think she’s forgiven me now though.’_ He hoped she had.  Elsie managed to hide her surprise at his statement.

‘ _And what about your boss?  Is he nice?_ ’ She asked, watching as Richard scrapped the last dregs of his pie from the plate.  She thought he’d lick the plate clean given the chance, but knew the manners drummed into him at school would prevent him.  It was nice to see his appreciation though.  Gordon could be a bit ungrateful sometimes…..

‘ _Well I’m not sure about nice, but he’s ok.  Patterson’s a conniving, manipulative sort, but he has to be I suppose.  It’s a small island with a small budget, so we have to make a little go a long way. Commissioner Patterson does the schmoozing so we can get on with our jobs.  Mind you, he does have a habit of appearing out of nowhere.  I swear he trained as a ninja. Or maybe a magician…._ ’

 ‘ _So you like it there?  On this island?_ ’  Gordon asked. 

Meal over, Elsie was clearing the table and Gordon was getting out the whiskey.  He had seen how animated Richard was when he described his new life.  It was good to see.  The few times he had seen him while he worked in London, Richard hadn’t seemed too happy, but he had always been shy so it wasn’t that noticeable.  Until now.

‘ _I didn’t like it at first_.’ Replied Richard, taking the proffered drink with a small smile.  ‘ _In fact I think I complained about everything.  But I guess I got used to it.  I learnt to cope.’_

_‘And now?’ Elsie pushed._

_‘I don’t know.’_ Richard sighed.  He just didn’t know.


	9. Packing Up

As Richard cast his eye over his meagre collection of belongings in the garage, a wave of sadness washed over him.  It wasn’t much to show for his life.  He’d felt the same thing a few days ago, just before he left the beach shack on Saint-Marie.  All of his possessions, except Lucy, fit into a suitcase smaller than a lot of people take on a two week holiday.  If he never returned, no-one would ever have known he’d been there. 

Having spent almost his entire childhood away at boarding school, he had learnt to get by with few possessions.  It wasn’t that they were not allowed.  No, if he had wanted to take Lucy to school it would have been permitted.  But the other boys would beg, borrow or steal from him, and then things got broken, accidentally or on purpose.  It wasn’t worth having anything ‘good’ as it would soon be missing or broken.  He learnt early on that it was safer not to have anything for others to worry about.  Besides, his parents weren’t rich and couldn’t afford to keep replacing Walkman’s or precision optical instruments.  Mum and Dad probably thought he hadn’t really liked his telescope when he chose to leave it with them instead of taking it back to school after Christmas that year.  But it was because he valued it so highly that he left it in their safe keeping. 

Pushing such emotional thoughts aside, Richard quickly set to work.  The only furniture put into storage was the mahogany bureau and captain’s chair from his Grandfathers study, a couple of sturdy bookcases he had acquired whilst at University, and the leather wingback chair he bought at his first auction.  The rest of the furniture had been let with the house in Croydon.  The remaining space in the garage was filled with boxes; Clothes, linens, crockery, one box of photos, and books.  Lots and lots of books.  He hardly remembered he had so many!  Thankfully his Mother had labelled the boxes clearly, affixing an inventory to the front of each one. 

Richard pulled a dusty suitcase down from the top of a pile of boxes his Mum had marked Clothes: Work and Clothes: Home.  There were twice as many work clothes as home ones.  After a good rummage through the boxes Richard pulled out what he wanted to take back with him, and repacked the rest.  A lot of his casual clothing comprised thick jumpers and formal type trousers.  If he wore that on the Island he would look odder than he did in his suit!  Perhaps Camille had been right about him hiding behind his suit and tie.  They represented the Detective Inspector, the policeman, the man respected for his ability to solve puzzling crimes.  Once upon a time there had been another Richard Poole.  One who had gone to the Pub and socialised with other people.  But Doug Anderson and Croydon had seen that man wither away and die. 

 _Perhaps I_ should _go shopping for something more suitable for the Island climate,_ he thought as he neatly packed the suitcase with clothes, a few photos and some bed linens.  It irked him that Charlie appeared to have only one set of bed sheets, but then Richard had never gotten round to purchasing anymore.  Now he had several sets of sheets and pillow cases that he could rotate.  He would have taken a few books with him but the case was already quite tightly packed and he worried about going over weight on the flight back.

                Elsie and Gordon had stayed at their house while Richard returned to his parents place.  It was getting late by the time he finished his packing, and Aunty Elsie persuaded him to stay the night and return to London the next day.  He telephoned his Uncle Stephen and had a chat with Mum and Dad.  Predictably his Mum was really upset to have missed him, but he said he would try to get some time off at Christmas to come back for a holiday.  She checked he was wrapping up warmly and using sun cream.

‘ _Yes Mum.  I use factor 50 and I cover up so I won’t be getting a melanoma!_ ’

Even at the age of forty, his Mum still treated him like a little boy.  He’d been surviving on his own since he was a boy of 7, but she still fussed over him.  His Dad had made polite conversation about work, and the weather but it was all rather stilted and forced.  He had actually faked a yawn to bring the call to a premature close, promising to call again when he arrived back on Saint-Marie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is such a short Chapter. It just didn't seem to fit with the one before, or the one after. I'll try to update again on Wednesday....


	10. Last day in London

 

Richards’s final day in the UK was spent on mundane things.  After a long shower, he pulled on some of the casual clothes he’d dug out of his parents garage, amazed that the jeans still fit.  He wasn’t sure when it was they were last worn, but they were comfortable and went well with the plain polo shirt he had chosen.  Adding a fleece he grabbed his jacket and as he left the house he noted that the sky looked sullen and rain seemed imminent.

Before heading back to London, Richard needed to clear his head of all the thoughts and confusion swirling inside.  He had lain awake most of the night trying to figure out why he felt so out of touch, and why he no longer found comfort in the cold and the drizzle he had craved for the last eighteen months.  Finally drifting off around 3 am, he was by Aunty Elsie at 7, with  a full English breakfast and a pot of delicious tea. 

Walking along the clifftop, a thin grey drizzle leaked from the steel grey sky.  Even the rain in the UK seemed half-hearted, as if to fall properly required too much effort.  In the Caribbean the rain threw itself into the task – descending with gusto in fat heavy drops.  Showers lasted mere minutes, an explosion of water rather than the lengthy meek sprinkle of mist that totalled a British rain shower.

The wind howled mournfully around him as if to echo his mood.  Pulling his coat tighter about him, he huddled into himself to keep warm.  His memory flashed back to the draughty dorm rooms at school, and nights when his blankets would be ‘borrowed’ by the others to keep themselves warm, leaving little Richard to sleeplessly shiver and shake the night away.  At times like that he cursed his intelligence.  Had he failed the scholarship exams maybe he would have had a normal education and things might have been different for him now.  But did he _want_ to change the life he had?

Sorting through his stuff in the garage had been difficult.  There just seemed so little to show for his forty years on Earth.  Whereas most men his age had families of their own, he didn’t even have a dog.  You couldn’t really count the lizard that lived in the beach house as it came and went as it pleased.  It didn’t need him.  No-one did.  Richard flopped onto a bench, sheltering from the rain under an ornate cast iron and glass awning, and stared out at the muddy brown sea and grubby beige sand.  Was this really his kind of paradise?  As a child it had been his dream to run away and live by the coast.  The environment seemed exotic and exciting, a total contrast from the echoing dark oak corridors of boarding school, an escape from the bullying and torment of school.  Those carefree holidays spent near here were a time for living out adventures like those in the books he read, his imagination conjuring up worlds where smugglers sheltered in the beach huts hugging the cliff base, whist escaped convicts hid in the gothic towers of the old hotel.  But the intervening years had turned the wide-eyed adventurous child into the scarred and cautious man he had become, his childhood fantasies replaced by practical concerns and fears.  Just as the sea had worn away at the sandy cliffs, the bullies in his life had worn down his confidence and self-esteem until all that was left in his life was his work. 

Watching the crashing waves exploding on the beach below, Richards mind wandered to the other beach where he often sat and stared.  That beach was the antithesis of here.  Gentle waves lapped at white sands.  Warm sunshine shone from an azure sky.  He could picture the people on that beach, couldn’t imagine the place without them.  Smiling Dwayne drinking a beer, Fidel playing with Juliet and baby Rosie in the sand, and Camille, her smile radiant as the sun, pushing, prodding and cajoling him to embrace his unintentional home.  It struck him that despite his often vocal reluctance she had never _forced_ him to do anything he really didn’t want to.  She seemed to sense the places she could push and refrained from the places she couldn’t.  She had pushed until he gave in and stopped wearing his jacket _inside_ the station, and she had been right that it was much cooler doing so, but Camille knew he wouldn’t relent when outside so she gave up trying.  

Closing his eyes, he took in a deep lungful of bracing sea air, slowly releasing it back out in a sigh.  Could he ever recover from his past?  Did the boy who sought out adventure still live inside of him?  Would the friendship of a small team of people 4,000 miles away be able to heal this broken man?  He didn’t know the answer to those questions.  But there was only one way to find out.

Pulling out his mobile phone, he searched through his contacts list. He still had the number of the MET’s Human Resources department.  It was just under a year since he had last tried to dial this number.  His thumb hovered over the screen.  Should he make the call that could change his life?

 _At least this time I’ve got a signal_ , he thought as he heard the line begin to ring….

0-0-0-0-0-0

Richard arrived back in London late morning.  He dropped off his extra case at the hotel and headed straight out again.  There was lots to do in a short amount of time.  On the journey down from Essex, he’d scribbled himself a list of what he needed to buy and where he needed to go.    Shopping for him was a necessity, something he had to do but took no real pleasure from.  Yet to many of his fellow countrymen and women it seemed to be almost a hobby.  As he walked along dodging the hordes of people glued to their phone screens and not looking where they were going, he felt glad that his trip hadn’t been too much later in the year; else the currently crowded stores would be heaving with Christmas shoppers.  Most shops had their decorations up already – it seemed the festive season started earlier and earlier each year. 

Richard thought back to last December and his first Christmas in the tropics.  He had spent the two day holiday holed up in his shack, miserable and full of self-pity, with only Harry for company.  Although there were several offers to share in the celebrations of his colleagues, he was too caught up in thinking of what he didn’t have to see what he did.  What would happen this year?  It was unlikely that he would be able to get enough time off to make a trip to the UK feasible, despite what he had told his Mum.  So Christmas would most likely be spent in the sunshine, not the snow.  Somehow, this didn’t feel as much of a hardship as it did last year.  Passing a large toy store his eye was drawn to the very creative window display which made him smile. The scene was a childs bedroom and toys were peeking out from all kinds of odd places while a child mannequin slept in a bed.  Perhaps he _should_ do some early Christmas shopping while he had the opportunity.  Saint-Marie didn’t have quite the variety of stores that London did.  Now who would he need to buy presents for?  Well, Mum and Dad of course, and Gordon and Elsie.  He would send cards to the rest of the family – there was Uncle Stephen and Aunt Penny on his mum’s side and Rob and his family and Hetty and James….. He made a mental list as he entered Marks and Spencers.  An hour later he emerged with several large well filled bags, and a ravenous appetite.

Lunch that day came courtesy of an international chain with a golden logo.  Sitting down with a large burger and fries, Richard recalled a conversation he’d had several weeks ago with Camille over dinner at La Kaz.  He would eat there at least twice a week now because, he argued, it was good to support local business, as well as the fact that Catherine _was_ a good cook.  Her Yorkshire pudding and toad in the hole was almost as good as his Mums.  The truth was he ate there rather than try to cook something at home which would turn out inedible, or more often burnt, as he’d never learnt to do much more than put a ready meal in the oven.  More recently, Camille had begun to join him in eating dinner there.

During one of their meals, Camille had asked him what foods he liked best, and then what he didn’t like.  In a rare open moment he had admitted he couldn’t stand doughnuts.  At her quizzical expression he elaborated….

‘ _It was a dare at University.  My flatmate bet me twenty quid that I couldn’t eat five doughnuts in five minutes without licking my lips.  Well, I couldn’t back down from a challenge like that, could I?’_ The memory caused him to break into one of his half-smiles that caused Camille’s tummy to flutter.

 _‘So? Did you win your bet?’_ Camille smiled back at him, which he found did something funny to _his_ insides.  Had he not been so careful about checking his salad before eating it, he would have thought he’d swallowed some kind of butterfly.

 _‘Um…..er…., no.’_ He put down his knife and fork, and his smile turned awkward.  He inwardly debated if he should tell her the truth about what happened next.  Camille’s bright eyes enticed him onwards. 

_‘It was, er…umm…declared null and void when I threw up all over the kitchen table.’_ He winced, but Camilles light giggle sent a wave of reassurance his way.

 _‘Yeah. Seems you shouldn’t wash the whole lot down with a pint of cider.  I haven’t touched a doughnut since.’_  Camille let loose a delicious laugh and the butterfly in his tummy did aerobatics.

In return, Camille had told him she couldn’t bear the taste of burgers.  She had amazed Richard when she admitted that when she first moved to Paris, she had limited cooking skills.  He assumed his inherently able DS was more than a capable cook.

‘ _So what did you do?’_ He asked with deep interest.

 _‘I ate takeaway. Every day!  After a month I was just craving vegetables and fruit. Anything green that wasn’t a gherkin!  I learned to cook pretty rapidly after that.’_ Her smile was almost shy, and most definitely endearing _._

 _‘Please don’t tell Maman_.’ She whispered. ‘ _I don’t think she could bear the shame.  Raising a daughter who didn’t know how to cook ‘_

‘ _Your secret is safe with me_.’ Richard had said with a reassuring smile.

 

Just as he was about to leave the restaurant in London, Richard spied a poster advertising the free gift given away with the children’s meals.  One character stood out – a melancholic grey donkey from stories he’d read in childhood.  When he’d ordered a copy of the book last week as a present for little Rosie’s upcoming first birthday, Camille had commented that the donkey in the book reminded her of a certain British Detective she knew.  At the time he had been a bit put out at the comparison, but looking back he could see her point.  Besides, she was definitely like the bouncy Tiger…..

 

Standing outside the restaurant five minutes later, Richard tucked a small toy into his jacket pocket, and then handed a cardboard carton of hot food to the homeless man who sat forlornly on the bench opposite with his little dog.

‘ _Woar.  Cheers mate!  Gawd bless ya!_ ’ said the man.  Richard just gave an embarrassed shrug and walked away.

Now, who else would he need a present for……

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there with this story. Sorry that it isn't that great, and there is probably a lot of tell and not much show. I am working on part two and hope that my skills are improving as I go. Any comments you make really do help me to improve, so let me know what you think. This hasn't quite worked out the way I planned, as it has ended up much longer than I anticipated, and seems to have a saggy bit, but I want to get it posted so I can claim my big green tick for this one.:-)
> 
> Also, I know someone who did indeed eat five doughnuts in one sitting - though she didn't wash them down with cider!


	11. Clerical Error

** Chapter 11 – Clerical Error **

The new Head of Overseas Personnel Deployments at the Metropolitan Police Service, Ms Sandra Wells was glad to finally be able to retreat into her cosy office and begin to tackle the stack of paperwork left behind by her predecessor.   Sandra had only started three days ago, and had spent much of her first days being ‘orientated’.  This meant endlessly trudging up and down corridors into every nook and cranny that New Scotland Yard possessed, as well as being introduced to, what felt like, every person in the building.  She was sure she had met the cleaner at least twice.  She had had to have her photograph taken and her fingerprints for her ID, spent half a day being shown how to access the various IT systems, and had an hour and a half lecture from the archives curator about the history of the force.  It wouldn’t have been so bad had she not already worked for the MET for the last twenty years, albeit in a different role.

But today was the day she could finally begin to chip away at the mountain of notes, letters and files that engulfed the surface of her desk.

The main purpose of the Overseas Personnel Deployment Department (OPeDD) was to ‘manage’ the hundred or so MET Police Officers who were stationed or seconded to countries and territories that were not the UK.  Most deployments lasted less than six months, so case turnover was high.  Occasionally secondments would last longer, but it was rare for them to go over two years.  The idea was _not_ for the UK tax payer to fund a paid ‘holiday’ to warmer climes, or an easier life.  These people had signed up to work in London after all.

Sandra steadily began to organise the pile from her desk, utilising the floor as well as the top of the filing cabinets and any other available space.  As she looked at the piece of paper in her hand,  her brain registered that she had seen the name Richard Poole before today.  It was currently neatly written on an internal transfer request form, but she was sure she had read it in an email from one of her staff.  After a few minutes searching she found the relevant piece of paper.  Yes, he had spoken to one of the girls yesterday……

Forty minutes later Sandra curled herself up, minus shoes, in the comfy armchair in her office and picked up the thick file she had eventually located.  It would take her some time to figure out the bizarre filing system used by her predecessor.  There appeared to be no rhyme or reason for _Inspector (Detective) Poole, Richard John_ to be filed under ‘C’, but at least she now had what she needed.  Taking a large mouthful of black coffee, 2 sugars, she began to review the personnel record.   It made for fascinating reading. 

Richard Poole had joined the MET straight from University and graduated Hendon aged 22.  After working as a beat officer for several years he was promoted to Detective Constable aged 25.  He passed his sergeants exams in the top 5% of candidates, and was made DS after just six years on the force.  He joined the CID at Croydon, worked in several departments, and was made DI seven years ago.  He appeared to be fair at solving crimes, but his social skills, or lack of them, were often flagged as a potential problem in his reviews, particularly under the leadership of DI Anderson.

Sandra walked over to her computer and logged into the PPI (Police Performance Index).  This was a computer programme that measured six key areas of performance among UK Police officers: Punctuality / Time keeping, Case Closure Rate, Complaints against, Sickness, Arrest Rate, and Administration.  Sandra was surprised that this apparently ‘anti-social pedantic tortoise’, as one former superior had called him, was actually in the top 1% for case closure and arrest rates.  There were few external complaints against him, his sick record was impeccable, and administration was 100% as was punctuality.

As Sandra continued to read through the thick folder of documents, it became clear that the man was clearly unhappy with his posting.  A stack of letters and emails of complaint were evidence of that.  She looked up Saint-Marie on the international Crime Statistics Database, a global catalogue of the reported crime rates in every country in the world, apart from North Korea..  The most up to date figures for the island were ten years old but it appeared that the typical crimes there were shoplifting, thefts and drunk and disorderly, and there wasn’t even much of that.  If she were looking for a holiday destination it would seem ideal – a tropical island with a low crime rate, but it was clear that this place would hold no challenge for an officer such as Poole.  No wonder he complained so much.

So in this case the decision was blindingly obvious.  An apparent genius detective had been sent to a small island that he obviously hated with a miniscule crime rate that didn’t match his talent.  It was hardly a good use of resources.  Surely there were others whose detection rates were better suited to this island backwater.

Sandra Wells brought her rubber stamp down on the transfer request form in front of her with a satisfying thunk!  She then walked the whole file to the outer office for one of the girls to type up the official ‘transfer approved’ letter.  With any luck it would make the post before the weekend.  It felt good to be able to make someone happy with such a simple act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't going to make the final cut, but events in the next part mean that it does need to go in. Hope you all like it and I can finally get the next part written. It's taking me far too long to do and I'm getting just a tad annoyed about that! :-~


	12. Anticipation

** Anticipation **

Camille threw herself down between Dwayne and Fidel, letting out an exasperated huff as she landed in the chair.

‘A quarter to Six.’ Stated Dwayne, not taking his eyes off the pretty girls dancing on the patio.

He hadn’t needed Camille to say anything.  She had been asking the time every five minutes since he’d arrived nearly an hour ago.

_Luckily it’s not annoying at all,_ Dwayne thought to himself, recalling the words of the waspish DS who stepped in last year when the Chief was sick with tropical fever.  He took a deep swig of beer, and swallowed slowly letting his mind wander.

Dwayne could understand Camilles nervousness.  The ‘Chief’ had been sent to London at the last minute, to escort Vicky Woodward, the murdering secretary (who was not quite pretty), and hand her over to the Serious Organised Crime Agency.   Apparently SOCA had requested a senior officer to do this, and as the Chief knew the case, the Commissioner chose him to go.  The Chief told them he would be back today, but deep down, Dwayne wasn’t sure _if_ he would be back, and was sure that Camille felt the same way.  Sent to the island to solve the murder of Charlie Hulme eighteen months ago, Detective Inspector Richard Poole was trapped here by Commissioner Patterson.  At first no-one was happy about it, least of all the Chief and the first few cases they had worked on, all murders bizarrely, there had been a tension in the air, as each person worked out where they fit into this new group.  But now?  Now they were a team, almost a family. 

 Dwayne, Fidel and Camille had all become sort of friends with the Chief, and the Chief, in his own way had become friends with them.   He would come out for a drink with the team when they closed a case, even usually buying the first round, but he wasn’t trying to get too friendly.  There was still that professional distance.  Unlike Charlie Hulme, god rest his soul, who tried to be ‘one of the boys’ outside of work, but then the ‘I’m your superior, so do what I say’ at work, DI Poole was still ‘the boss’ no matter when or where.  Dwayne knew he wasn’t going to compete for the affections of the islands female population, as others had before him.

Taking another mouthful of beer, Dwayne thought about all the DI’s he’d served under in his years on the force.  Some had been laid back like Charlie Hulme, some had been even more uptight than Poole, and some had been a right pain in the ass, but the current Chief was head and shoulders above the rest.  To start with he’d been uptight, rude and demanding, but Dwayne had come to see that this was a bit of an act.  When he’d used his contacts to dig up the dirt on Poole, he’d discovered that Poole had never led a team before.  In London it was always at least a Detective _Chief_ Inspector who was ‘the boss’, not a lowly DI.  So he’d had no experience of man management, which is probably why he was so awful, at the start.  But the man was polite, always saying thank you, and telling them well done.  He made sure that the Commissioner knew it was a team effort and not his genius alone that had cracked the case.  He’d rarely dressed them down for a mistake, apart from young Fidel when he let a potential murder suspect go because she was upset, and that was more to do with the Chiefs discomfort of being dragged along to the Venerators reunion gig than any real annoyance at the boy.  But Fidel didn’t make the same mistake again, and it was the Chief who had pushed Fidel to go for his Sergeants exams, being genuine in his praise when the boy passed.

Yes, Richard Poole could rant for England at the Olympics but he was fair.  He’d mellowed with time too, and came to appreciate the team’s quirks and strengths.  He overlooked Dwayne’s _occasional_ hangovers, in trade for knowing what was going on on the ‘shadier’ parts of the island.  Dwayne had seen how the Chief also came to recognise and even to rely upon the many talents of Camille.  The pair made a good match in more ways than one.  The Chief brought out the best in everyone, and they were a force to be reckoned with now.  From the corner of his eye Dwayne saw Fidel picking at the label on his beer.

Fidel too was thinking about Inspector Poole.  He had been disappointed that the Inspector hadn’t been there when his sergeant’s stripes arrived in their box a few days ago.  For a moment he had thought about waiting until DI Poole returned to wear them, but the excitement was too much and he had given in to temptation and put them on.  He felt proud as punch to walk through the market and see people looking at him, congratulating him on his achievements.  Juliet had been keen to show him how proud she was too…..   And it was all thanks to Inspector Poole.  He had put Fidel up for the exams, and had pushed him to go through the test the day after the hurricane.  It was good to know that the man had faith in him. 

_I only hope that one day I am half as good as he his,_ Fidel thought to himself as he took a swig of beer.  He watched Camille fiddling with a pile of napkins on the bar.  He knew how much she had missed the Inspector.  Having been married for nearly 8 years, Fidel knew how to tell if a woman was upset, or anxious.  Her feelings couldn’t have been clearer to him had she written the words across her forehead, but it wasn’t Fidels place to say anything so he kept his thoughts to himself.  Hopefully one day they would work it out.  They were Detectives after all….

 

Unfolding and refolding a stack of napkins, purely for something to keep her hands occupied, Camille growled in frustration.  What was taking so long?  This suspense was killing her.  Damn the Commissioner for going to the airport.  At least if she had been there she could have checked up to see if he even got on the plane in London, or Paris, or wherever!  Willing herself to regain some control, Camille took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, visualising the calm sea lapping at the white sandy beach.  It only made her think of _his_ beach house and _him._   He said he would be back, so why didn’t she fully believe him?  And why did it matter so much if he didn’t return?  As the beginnings of anger ignited in her belly, she pushed the thoughts away, deep into the box in her mind labelled – don’t even go there!

Apart from her phone call, and his text on his first day in London there had been only one other communication from Richard all week.  It consisted of a photo message, sent two days ago, of a depressingly slate grey sky, above a granite coloured sea, that washed up a dirty beige litter strewn beach on which stood an ancient looking caravan.  Honestly, the thing had to be older than Maman!  The whole image was blurry as if it was raining hard when it was taken.  But there were no words. No idea of where he was, or what he was trying to say.  It was too cryptic for Camilles currently distracted state of mind.  Was he telling her that this was his ‘paradise’ and he was staying in England, or was it saying that he was as miserable as the picture and he was coming back?  She had spent hours agonising over that picture, even contemplated sending back a reply but she was too confused about what to do.

She was afraid.  And Detective Sergeant Camille Bordey did not _do_ afraid.  She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, how much she had missed the grumpy, yet brilliant man who was more than just her ‘boss’ to her.  She had missed his funny little ways – like holding doors open for her, or grumbling about how hot it was, even though he was wearing a woollen suit.  She didn’t want to think about how long it had taken her to get ready for this ‘Welcome Home’ party.  Maman had clocked it straight away, but Camille hoped she had managed to deflect her mother’s queries about her attire with her nonchalant ‘ _this old thing?_ ’  She also hadn’t told anyone of her visits to the beach house. 

 

After the first night, spent with the team at the bar, Camille had ducked out of anymore social gatherings.  She told her mother she was visiting friends, but in reality she had gone to the beach and sat on the veranda steps with a beer.  Sometimes Harry would appear and she would talk to him.  It helped her understand, a little, why Richard was so fond of the lizard.  She felt she could confide in Harry – as she had done when the pickpocket she’d arrested made sexist remarks about her.  The reptile had sat there on the veranda rail while she cried.  She wasn’t sure how big the reptilian brain was, or if they were able to pick up on human emotion, but there was something about Harry that he just seemed to ‘know’.

Having spent a week doing his job, Camille also had a new found respect for Richard.  It had been more stressful than when she had been undercover, and the paperwork!  How did he not drown under a sea of forms?  It had mattered deeply that she did a good job – she didn’t want to let Richard down, wanted him to be proud of her efforts, of _her_. 

Camille was interrupted from her musings by her mothers whispered words as she dashed past her daughter.

‘Quick!  The Commissioners Car.’

A large figure loomed in the doorway to the bar, and a hushed silence fell on the small gathering.  Commissioner Patterson entered the bar, looking tired and weary, his shoulders slumped forward and his face bore an expression of resignation. 

‘Good evening Team.’  He sighed.  Four heads tried to peer around the man’s bulky frame, but they were unsuccessful.

‘ _He_ was _on the flight, right?’_ Fidel asked the question that was on everyone’s lips.

‘ _Ah.  Yes.’_  The Commissioner looked down at his hands, and fiddled with his dress cap, before sighing again and looking up at the gathered members of the Honoré Police team, not quite meeting their eyes.

’ _A bit of a problem there….’_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so we have reached the end of the first part of the story! Hoo-rah!  
> This story has not gone where I was expecting it too, so it might have ended up a bit hit and miss. For that I can only apologise. This is my first foray into a story of any length and I'm still finding my feet.  
> There are quite a few now redundant chapters, so for part two I am going to write the whole thing before posting it. Maybe I can save myself some headaches! Two days ago I was struggling to write a scene and now I have ended up completely changing the key aspect of the piece, but I think it will work better. Only time will tell.  
> So I am going to spend my summer scribing away and hopefully will have part two ready for the autumn.  
> Watch this space - and thank you for your comments. They really do help. :-)


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